


All That Glitters is Not (A) Gold(en Army)

by DovahDoes



Series: Those Who Wander [2]
Category: Hellboy (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, And also a whole other story after this, Attempt at Humor, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark!John Myers, F/M, Kinda, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Protective Nuada, Riding, See? You had faith and then there was smut, Smut, So shhhh., Some Humor, Whump, and also the return of the Golden Army, at the least he is Not Excited about the BPRD or his ex-teammates, he IS excited about Nuada tho, or at least, sorry not sorry John- just gotta hurt you sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-10 08:26:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 16,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11123475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DovahDoes/pseuds/DovahDoes
Summary: Nuada wants to command the Golden Army to destroy all of humanity, and so does his companion— a certain former BPRD agent known as John Myers.Some events look quite a bit like canon, but even more do not.That is to say:  I kinda' wanted HB 2: Golden Army to have a bit of John Myers.  (I outlined 2 versions of what that might look like, and this is the one where heisn'ton Hellboy's side.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying out a pretty different writing style, here, and because I am a masochist, apparently, I decided to do so in a fandom for which I've never written. #genius!
> 
> Anyhoot! A bit of background, I guess? In case I don't get to throw in the flashbacks I intend, or end up making them separate fics/ficlets entirely.
> 
> So. John _was_ sent to Antarctica, and had a rather Rough Go. Indeed, some Things happened and Nuada essentially came to his rescue, thus endearing himself to the somewhat damaged former BPRD agent. They fell in adorable, badass love (of course) and things basically merge into canon, save for a few little blips that I might go into more detail for, later.
> 
> (That is, the auction house massacre still occurs, Nuada still kills his padre with the intent of raising the Golden Army, and Nuala still escapes with her bit of the crown.)
> 
> There will, of course, be some differences when I fill in John's part in any number of these events, and we'll be splitting from canon the further in we go. c;

 

There is a continuous hissing sound emanating from an unknown point in the (typically) hermetically-sealed suit that Johann Krauss— or rather his ectoplasmic presence— inhabits.  Sprawled as he is, half on his side, with one hand efficiently damming the heavy outward flow of his aforementioned semi-corporeal self, he has very little capability to warn his colleagues of the extremely hostile being that seems set on hindering and/or halting their foray into the troll market in search of the source of the auction-ruining tooth fairies.

 

His helmet’s metal fastenings make a clanking sound when he finally allows gravity and the ground take care of the increasingly difficult task of holding up his own head.  (Or, well, the place where his head _would_ be.  You get the idea.)

 

 _Scheiße_.

 

*

 

Quite a few clustered sets of dilapidated market stalls and trinket-cluttered kiosks away, Krauss’ boisterous, demonic coworker is unaware of any additional danger, as he is most definitely fully invested in his own bit of a scuffle with an ungodly-ugly creature that seems determined to show off its own version of a non-flesh forearm.

 

Only,  _this_ overachiever’s made _his_ rocket-fucking-propelled or something else equally stupid and annoying to deal with.

 

Luckily, at this point, he’s pretty much got the guy beat— even left him down and (hopefully) out a few minutes ago.  Or maybe not: much to his chagrin, he can, again, hear an unwelcome and now-recognizable series of lumbering footfalls at his back.

 

Hellboy sighs and turns around, leaving his stance wide, and his expression irritated and exasperated in equal turns.  It is the absolute greatest of inconveniences having to remove his hard-earned cigar from between his teeth in order to warn the guy to back off and also let him know that it would be a Real Bad Idea to re-instigate anything at this point.

 

(If his calculations are right, any flying fist sent his way will end up caught firmly in the churning machinery behind him, likely leading to a gruesome but not unfitting end for the other combatant.  Plus, if it goes as planned, the badass factor of the move would almost definitely constitute a high five from at _least_ one of the gawking rubberneckers standing around him.  Or maybe good ol’ web-fingered, telepathy-hands himself— that or the pensive mystery chick at his side.  Heh, way to go Abe!)

 

Anyway, of _course_ , the giant thing is dumber than a bag of rocks, and with a roar, sends its aforementioned metal fist flying straight toward Hellboy at a conveniently easily-dodgeable speed.  Hell yeah!

 

Except that the split second before the hunk of metal tethered to the other being by several lengths of chain would have entered the churning mess of moving gears at his back, something comes streaking from outside his line of sight and strikes the metal hand with a prodigiously loud clang.  More relevantly, the pointed projectile manages to knock the soaring piece of weaponized anatomy off course enough for it to entirely quash Hellboy’s expertly half-thought-out awesome big fight finale.

 

Damn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, the chapters _will_ get longer.)
> 
> I am really still feeling out these characters. :/ Hopefully I can tighten up characterisation before we get, like, a half dozen chapters in. Haha.
> 
> This is most definitely a learning experience for me, still, so always feel free to provide some concrit. I don't have a beta, either, so any funky spelling/typos are 100% on me.)  
> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	2. Chapter 2

Light, but rapid footfalls approach from the same direction as had the strange object, just moments ago and Hellboy glances at Big Dumb n Ugly perfunctorily to make sure he’s fully preoccupied with his ineffective efforts to dislodge his gigantic fist from where it’s lodged deeply in a nearby brick wall.

 

It’s good that he only took a moment to look elsewhere, as the mystery combatant is infinitely faster than he could have imagined, leaving him only a split-second to draw his revolver and whip it around to point at the imminent danger.

 

The imminent danger being— gone?  How the—

 

Hellboy’s tail lashes in tense agitation, and Liz’s voice crackles to hyper-concerned life in his ear, asking for any updates on what’s happening (who knows) and where Abe is (right behind him with some concerningly hunted-looking blonde lady) and what happened to Johann (who cares) and about four other things he’s got no time to think about when he’s pretty sure something else, here, is hostile and oh-so-annoyingly adept at remaining incognito.

 

The crunch of crumbling mortar and the patter of bits of brick hitting the ground brings his attention back over toward the be-muscled, mottled greyish guy from earlier, who is now completely free to move around.  Great.

 

 _But who the hell else is here_ , for fuck’s sake?

 

Some sort of strange, preternatural instinct has him following either the scent or the _sense_ of something moving past behind him, and he fires a round from the Samaritan with near-unerring accuracy, hopefully slowing the thing down as it bends to retrieve something from the debris-strewn ground next to an arbitrary stall.

 

He ignores the gasp from New Lady, behind him.  (If she's got a problem with him shooting any of the shit trying to kill them, it’s gonna be a real rough afternoon in the Troll Market for her.)

 

The figure smoothly twists to one side the instant the shot is fired, but is still able to scoop up the strange, pointed panel that shines like burnished steel before stumbling badly and falling down to one knee, a gloved hand pressed harshly against the intricately wrapped fabric over its side.

 

At this point, Burly-oh-so-Surly returns to his sightline at a rapid stomp, trampling any number of odd knick knacks and pottery in its path and finally taking up a protective stance before the vulnerable anonymous assailant that is still struggling to regain its equilibrium.  From behind the sedan-sized body of Large and Not-So-In-Charge comes a tense, but gentle voice.

 

“Wink.  _Wink_ , it’s okay.  Come on.  I have what we need— l-let’s get back to him, now.”

 

The hairs (both figurative and literal) on both Abe and Hellboy’s bodies stand up at once.  It _can’t_ be who it sounds like, but…

 

The recently-identified “Wink” (and really?  _that’s_ this guy’s name?) steps to the side briefly to brace the strained-looking ascent back to full height of the other dude all in black, and for a moment, the profile of a very familiar face is visible, before a sharp crack and a blinding light force everyone to avert their gazes.  The billowing clouds of opaque, inky smoke that enshroud the entire immediate vicinity are also pretty good at redirecting attention to multiple areas, as each person does their best to track any movement within the murky, blackish fog.

 

Of course, no such luck is meant for them, and when the smoke clears, both enemies have vacated the premises successfully, with only a small pool of bronze-hued blood to mark the place they’d occupied moments before.

 

With an irate huff, the 6 foot plus, crimson demon holsters his oversized handgun and frowns speculatively before redirecting his gaze to his lanky, aquatic companion, disbelief colouring his hardened features.

 

“Abe.  Was that fucking _John Myers_ I just saw toss a ninja smoke bomb and flee the troll market holding some weird, Phantom of the Opera lookin’ mask?”

 

Apparently, Liz has been listening in somehow, too, as she responds in a static-y, confusion-laden deadpan.

 

“ _What_?”

 

Hellboy turns around to fully face both Abe and his new, almost-monochromatic sidekick, intent on getting the fuck out of dodge in hopes of evading Manning’s inevitable, endless tirade they are sure to encounter, and—  _huh_.  Isn’t there someone else who’s supposed to be here?

 

Oh yeah.

 

“Hey, wait a minute— where’s Agent Krautland?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Next chapter: John and Nuada! Huzzah!)
> 
> Also? **Here are some other, optional 'nicknames' Hellboy had for Johann that I ended up nixing:** Agent Krausshole, Agent Scubahat, German Jacques Cousteau, Walking Bag Full of Hot Air)
> 
> Who knows: maybe I'll end up using some of these later. (Anyone else find it amusing thinking up Hellboy-esque insults? Hahaha)  
> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	3. Chapter 3

By the time they find Nuada’s little above-ground hiding place (an unremarkable, but magic-soaked alcove behind a run-down apartment building), the battle-ready scion is pacing up a storm, ash white hair fanning about dramatically with each step.  His aureate eyes zero in on Mr. Wink’s badly damaged right hand, briefly, and then he is striding forward to help support the flagging man who is being held up by the troll’s other forearm, the one comprised of flesh and not machinery.

 

In the interim of their having left the market, several informative cave pixies had already come to the prince bearing news of the several skirmishes, his sister’s presence, how many BPRD agents were present, and even how close Wink had come to meeting an untimely and undeserved end at the hands of the oafish, mortal-soft demon.  What they had failed to mention was that his mate had been wounded— and not negligibly.

 

“John— _A’mael_ ,” the elf murmurs, taking his listing weight fully, and relieving his oldest guard of his burden, temporarily.

 

His John is a tireless, tenaciously steadfast defender, and a worthy opponent, so to see him so out of sorts has piqued Nuada’s unease and concern.  He cups his lover’s jaw in a weapon-calloused hand, using it to prompt the wan-looking man into meeting his eyes.  (It does his heart good to see the other gift him a weary smile, but the drooping eyelids and the heavily dilated pupils quickly replace any warm feelings with a fresh dose of worry and a stirring sense of anger.)

 

“ _Nuada_ , it’s—.  I saw her, there: Nuala.  With the map.  My f-former colleagues were there, as well as— as-“  Here, John reaches out to grasp the armor clad upper arm of the exiled potentate, who is gazing searchingly at his distressed features: he needs to keep himself grounded in the moment, at least until he can debrief the other on what had occurred in the Troll Market.  His other hand spasms over the growing bloodstain just beneath his ribs as a fresh wave of fiery pain blooms outward from the relatively small wound.

 

“Anh!” He pants out, miserably, shaking his fuzzy-feeling head in hopes of clearing it.  “They have— someone else, too.  Man made of energy— of, uhvvv… smoke?  Be caref’lll of him,” he slurs.  “And… s’methin in the bullets.  _Burnss_.”

 

Half-lidded blue eyes winch shut as a quiet hiss makes its way past the former government agent’s fever-dry lips, his respiration thereafter becoming shallower with each breath.

 

“John!   _Avrath’ea_ , you must rest.  I will take care everything from here forward,” the increasingly incensed prince says placatingly, hoping to set his partner at ease. “Mr. Wink!  Take him to our personal chambers and give him _only_ the elixir in the blue pot— the one for combating iron-poisoning.”

 

Easily, the burly personal guard takes the weight of the nearly insensate man from the arms of his liege, nodding in assent to the given instructions before taking off at an accelerated pace down a fae-glamoured dark alleyway, nearby.  The bleeding bundle of man and dark fabric in his hold is clearly approaching unconsciousness, and his thready mumbling is steadily petering out, too. 

 

Gypsum-white hands form trembling fists before forcibly unclenching and being left to hang loose.  He can still hear a pain-wracked voice, though, even at this distance.

 

“W’nk.  _Ah_ — please.  Don’t let them send me back: s-sssso cold.  _Please_ …”

 

Nuada closes his eyes and inhales briskly through his nose, and then sets off in the direction of his sister, now that she is in close enough proximity to locate with relative ease.

 

His newly-estranged sibling and her nascent "allies" have shown quite a bit of their hand, and he feels they are owed the same in return, even if what his hand holds might pose rather a disproportionate amount of threat to them.  The elemental in his pocket vibrates in its protective casing, heating up eagerly in direct reaction to his burgeoning hunger for vengeance.

 

“Soon, little friend.  _Soon_ ,” he whispers soothingly, at last spotting the cluster of bickering BPRD agents (strangely, one seems to be deflating in its armor) and his apprehensive-looking sibling, all of them utterly unaware of his rapid approach. 

 

Without uttering a word of warning or greeting, he swings his arm in a low arc and sends the temporarily-small being nimbly rolling towards a sewer grate at a breakneck pace.

 

Pale citrine eyes snap over to his own and widen in reaction as his twin notices what is happening and exactly who is responsible just a _moment_ too late; her shouted warning does no good and the glossy, metallic egg tumbles toward the water below.

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _A’mael_ - **Beloved **.** _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 ** _Avrath’ea_** \- Please. _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 

[[Yeah.  So.  Hellboy II gifted us with many things, but none of them was any sort of glossary or guide for the elvish language they chose to use in the film.  I'm using a mixture of Tolkien Elvish, Drowish (by way of D&D), and a _bit_ of what I'm able to parse contextually from what is spoken in the movie.]]

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (See? Chapters are getting longer, as promised. o: )  
> Still no beta, y'all. As always, apologies if I missed anything major in proofreading.
> 
> Aaaaand we have reached the end of what I have already written. I've outlined to maybe.... halfway through the story, so once I finish getting it all thought/planned out, I can go back start fleshing everything out. I don't know how many chapters I have planned, to be honest, so bear with me!  
> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	4. Chapter 4

 

There is an overwhelmingly silent pause that precedes a series of rumbling quakes that escalate quickly into what feels like a significant seismic event.  Already prepared for this exact scenario, the eldest of the royal siblings races away at the first hint of the ground’s trembling, finding a secluded spot where he crouches low to the ground and braces for the hyper-accelerated growth cycle of the tree elemental.

 

When he hears the groaning of the heavy tarmac as it is bent upward, followed by deep, earthy cracks as it buckles under the intense force of the verdant behemoth’s ascent to full height, he grins vindictively and rises to his own feet.  Quickly noting the layout of the narrowly separated structures around him, he takes off at a sprint before utilising a complex series of wall-vaults and acrobatic twists to make his way to the rooftops.

 

From there, he observes the spreading chaos:  monstrous examples of what humans think constitutes architecture are twisted, bent, or flattened in the righteous rampage of his most sizable of allies.  His blood all but sings as he follows along, parallel to the trail of exquisite destruction that is left behind.  With every felled steel and glass abomination, and each utterly demolished poison-belching automobile, he can feel something within him lighten **,** as if in positive affirmation of the events.

 

When he at last catches up to the crux of the action, where many humans are gathered, gawking and standing motionless like dazed cattle too moronic to run from the blade of their butcher, he spots a certain, frustrated-looking demon perched along a building’s corner.  Silently and with incredible speed, he makes his way to the top of that very same building, and approaches the object of a great deal of his ire.  Fool that it is, the otherwise engaged demon does not notice his presence until he begins to address it.

 

“Demon!  What are you waiting for?  This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Look at it: the last of its kind.  Like you and I. You destroy it— the world will never see its like again.  You have more in common with it than with the creatures swarming down there.  You were meant be a king, after all; some sort of _god_ , if my other half is to be believed.”

 

The human spawn in his immense hand squalls quietly in discomfort while the demon’s mouth drops open in confused disbelief, sputtering a disjointed string of semi-coherent words.

 

“ _Other half_?  And how’d you know about—?“

 

Unconcerned with the inane babble coming from the imbecile balanced precariously several feet below him, the prince stands up at his full height and continues speaking, even as his already imperious tone chills even more.

 

“But do _not_ think that you would _ever_ be welcome in my kingdom, nor any of my territories, in the years to come: your past actions against those under my purview have ensured you a particularly long and miserable ordeal before your inevitable death at my hands.”

 

“Make no mistake, _Anung Un Rama_ ,” he enunciates, clearly, “your days are numbered: if you won’t take this world as your own, as was once prophesied, then _I_ will gladly usurp your throne and do so myself.”

 

The ever-present shouting from below begins to grow in volume, as do shrieks of terror and cries for help as the forest god redoubles its destructive efforts.  Nuada tilts his head as the voice of one woman in particular cuts through the rest (a fairly impressive feat)— Hellboy’s mate, if he is not mistaken— and she screams something that he finds mostly incomprehensible.  (The comprehensible portion contains the word ‘shoot’, though, and he can extrapolate that the rest must be some coded phrase for a target, somewhere.)

 

Seeing the demon shift its infant burden, years of battle-honed instinct has him turning on the spot to again rapidly map his surroundings in order to quickly travel to a new location.  Immediately, the wary elf closes in on the massive nature deity that is braced against a building adjacent to the one on which Hellboy is perched.  Just as he heaves himself up and over the ledge of the building behind the slowing elemental, a nearly deafening percussive blast half-deafens him.  Concurrently, he gasps involuntarily: it feels as if he has taken a solid blow to his chest, and he is left breathless for several seconds before he shakes off the strange haze.

 

Half-focused golden eyes alight first on the odd, changed quality of the night air: it is now lit by fluorescent, glowing particles that eddy and weave about in the slow-moving breeze.  His stomach drops, even as he prepares for what he already knows he will find when he peeks over the building’s edge.

 

War has taught him the very necessary skill of compartmentalization, but even still, the seasoned veteran of combat takes a moment to solemnly bow his head in respect for his fallen comrade-in-arms.   Even in death, the old forest god makes for a spectacle like none ever seen before: it has left the cold, unnatural habitat of mankind in a state most closely resembling that of the world before its mechanized ruination.  Lush and green and fulgent with fresh life, his transmuted surroundings elicit a half-forgotten memory of the world as it was in his youth, filling him with transient nostalgia; that was the world his late mother had inhabited happily.

 

 _That_ is the world he will bring back, no matter the cost.

 

Grasping a small sproutling where it has begun to grow and bloom, right in the middle of an unremarkable, gravel-covered concrete patch, Nuada speaks gentle, persuasive words to the tiny flower until it turns to him and allows him to pluck it up from its grassy little home.

 

The voices at street level rise, bellicose and senseless, as fickle mortals turn on those beings who would choose to protect and guard their interests (and often, their very lives), but the figure atop the tall, crumbling brick edifice has departed too soon to be proven correct.

 

*

 

Underground, and not so very far away, John is jolted back into consciousness with a cut-off gasp, hand clutching at the pale skin of his chest, just over his heart.  Within moments, he realizes that he is simply feeling an echo of his soulmate’s emotions: a familiar fiery anger that simmers lowly— but intensely— and a new, sharp sense of loss, almost bittersweet in its capacity.

 

He rubs across his face, unsurprised to find that his dragonhide gloves are gone, as he has also been rendered shirtless and shoeless (no doubt the work of the loyal, thoughtful Mr. Wink).  Peering over at a small, unlatched golden case atop a rather spartan wooden bureau, he notes that there is something conspicuously missing from among its contents.

 

“Damnit, Nuada,” he sighs to himself, recognizing what must have happened, and then relaxes back into the mattress.  There are only three other hibernating forest elementals remaining in their container— a fourth rounded groove is glaringly empty.

 

Deciding that nothing good will come of his lying in bed any longer, the young man takes a bracing breath before levering himself up in a single smooth motion, one palm braced against the pillows behind him to ensure he remains upright, and the other arm moves to wrap around his abdomen in order to grasp at his side that pulses, mildly, in reactionary pain.  Air passes through his gritted teeth in a quiet grunt, and he sits motionless for a moment, allowing himself to get reoriented and rebalanced.

 

He cracks open his eyes and is met with the rather unimpressed expression of his lover, who stands in the doorway, free of any armor and looking not much worse for the wear.

 

Oops.

 

If his face wasn’t already so occupied by a largely involuntary pained grimace, he would surely be smiling sheepishly in response.  Luckily for him, his aforementioned wince seems to soften the other male’s judgmental moue into a fond sort of exasperation that very few would believe the Bethmooran elf capable of expressing.

 

“Ah.  Hey!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Next time: smut! No but srsly. It's why the rating changed. Hahahaha)
> 
> Whoops-- my writing style got all purple prose-y, again. Also? I still have no idea how the hell to write a chaptered fic. I guess we'll all find out together??
> 
> I struggled through some weird writer's block on this one, so if it feels a bit piecemeal/disjointed that might be why. All I wanted to do was explore exactly why Nuada fucked off so quickly in the movie, after raising the elemental. Except instead, he decided to stay, in my version? (The dude keeps going against my outlined plans, just to spite me. jfccc)  
> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter _before_ going back to tediously fill in the semi-plotty bits in the previous chapter. #priorities
> 
> [On that note, I posted chapters 4 & 5 at the same time, so scroll up if you missed the prior chpt. (Or don't. Whichever.)]

 

Intending to meet Nuada halfway, John swings his legs to the side and is shortly thereafter up on his feet, slightly trembling leg muscles be damned.  Meeting the other halfway becomes meeting him roughly an eighth of their initial distance apart, as the prince almost trips in his haste to shorten the gap.

 

“ _A’mael_!” He chides, sternly.  “Why do you not return to bed?  We have nothing in need of our urgent attention, and you have yet to heal, fully, from your injuries.”

 

More than used to the concerned fussing his other half thinly veils beneath a façade of hard-edged; bluntly delivered facts or imperative statements, John just barely refrains from rolling his eyes.  Instead, he raises an eyebrow and wraps one arm around the elf’s lower back, using it to bring their bodies closer together.  The proprietary hand that the elder of the two had initially placed along his paramour’s uninjured side slides down and back to rest comfortably over a much-loved posterior.

 

All the while, he is, as ever, utterly enraptured by the piercing, fluorite-blue irises set in what must be the most alluring face in any of the realms he has traveled over several eons.  He knows he was going to say something else, but instead finds that a better use of his time is lowering his head in order to sweetly kiss away the perturbed pout on his beloved’s lips.   (His little _melar_ has never handled scolding very well.)

 

At the first brush of his lover’s mouth against his own, the sleep-rumpled brunet’s eyes slide shut, and he sways forward into the warm body before him, respiration picking up as their embrace turns from delicate and reassuring to passionate and devouring in a minute’s time.  Both males are careening into fiery, desperate arousal, as is evidenced by the gasps and occasional deep growls that are rising in volume.

 

Nuada runs both of his hands down over John’s toned backside before using their possessive hold to roughly pull his lower body forward into his own.  The first contact of their arousals is electric, and the former government agent breaks their fierce oral battle to keen wantonly, head tilted back and lips spit-slick and obscenely reddened.

 

The sound seems to run straight through to the prince’s blood-filled cock, as he then reels his lover in yet closer, lifting and manipulating the other male with ease, encouraging the start of a slow, dirty grind of their clothed crotches.

 

“Sh- _shit_ ,” John manages to pant out, one hand still clutching at the shirt fabric near his lover’s waist, and the other tangled in the sweat damp locks at the nape of a strong neck.  “ _Nuada_ , please—“

 

The afore-named elf smiles wolfishly, even as he allows himself to be tugged back down into a sloppy, breathy kiss, again.  Lightning quick, but with the utmost of care, he exerts a modicum of his not insignificant strength and soon, quivering legs are wrapped about his hips while he moves the proceedings to the nearby bed.

 

With gravity on his side, now, Nuada resumes the obscene, repeated meeting of their lower bodies, quite content to watch his consort slowly come apart beneath him, increasingly breathless whimpers climbing in pitch as they escape from behind a lower lip clenched tightly between teeth.  Using one hand, he encourages his bedpartner to hitch one leg up and wrap it around his hip, leaving more room to settle into the open cradle of his hips.  The other hand slides beneath a feverous **,** perspiration slick neck, prompting him to tilt his head forward to re-engage in a kiss.

 

All but fucking his lover through his clothes, and right into the bed, Nuada can tell that the other is nearly at his zenith, and feels a rush of fierce triumph that feeds right into the staggering shocks of pleasure that race back and forth from his brain to his cock.  A clever hand finds its way to his jaw, as he tilts his head to the side in an endeavor to better tangle his tongue with its opponent, but he finds himself breaking their oral entanglement when devious fingers take hold of the top half of his ear and make a point to rub with soft deliberation at the exceedingly sensitive, tapered tip.

 

His head falls forward heavily onto John’s heaving breast, and his hips swivel almost mindlessly, now, chasing the close, inevitable end of all this.  Hot breaths pant out from his open mouth and his eyes nearly roll back in his head as he muffles a deep groan by biting into the meat of the muscled shoulder just before him, hips beginning to stiffen as he finally peaks.

 

“Ah! C-can’t—!” John nearly shouts, as he joins his other half in climax, pleasure suffusing his whole body at the sensation of being marked so savagely.  His own hips continue to roll up in counterpoint to the stuttered half-thrusts that mark Nuada’s fading orgasm.

 

Moments later, the teeth at his neck disengage and a superheated tongue laves at the sore area, as if in apology, and there is a tender press of lips, there, preceding the prince’s rolling to his side to lie flat on his back, where he flings an arm up and over his head to rest comfortably on a pillow at the bed’s apex.

 

He rolls his head to regard his beloved with unmasked fondness, not worried about showing any perceived ‘weakness’ here— not with his _m’ranndii_.

 

When his gaze finally tracks all the way from the other’s oddly vulnerable-looking unclothed feet, and make their way up to his face, he meets the arctic blue regard, evenly, not speaking a word.  The half-lidded eyes peering back at him are made even more enchanting by the still-dilated pupils that refract candlelight like curiously flat obsidian.

 

In a split-second, he is propped up on his side, leaning over to buss a brief kiss to a forehead gone tacky with dried sweat, his hair cascading over his shoulder to momentarily veil the quick action from any outside observation.  And then, moving like air, he is off the mattress, and gliding into the washroom to the side, where he makes swift work of disrobing and wiping himself down with a damp cloth.  (Dried seed is terribly difficult to clean from fabric, but endlessly uncomfortable to remove from skin.)

 

He uses hot water to moisten a second cut of fabric, which he then takes with him into the main chamber, plopping it temporarily on a small table while he efficiently strips John of his battle leathers, taking great care not to jostle his still healing body overmuch.  In short order, he wipes his lover down with the warmed material and settles the lethargic male underneath thick, warm sheets.

 

After disposing of the dirtied cloth, Nuada joins his lover beneath the downy bed linens, smoothly sliding in behind him and molding their bodies together.

 

He huffs a tired, but amused sigh, tenderly murmuring to the room at large, “Maybe now you will stay in bed long enough to achieve _actual_ rest, hm, _Ussta Ai_?”

 

As expected, there is no response but the lengthening, deep breaths of the figure resting close against him.  The exiled prince closes his eyes and lets his post-coital lassitude carry him to slumber.

 

He must rise early to begin the preparations for retrieving the map from his sister, but a night of content sleep will come first.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _A’mael_ - **Beloved **.** _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 ** _Melar_**  - Love (noun, as in the endearment).  _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 ** _M’ranndii_ \- ** Mate **.** _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 ** _Ussta Ai_  - **Little One **.** _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally? My notes/outline said that they, like, share a kiss and then _go to fucking s leEP_. Nuada THAT WAS NOT SLEEP. Good god, man. (And don't think I didn't see what you were doing, there, John-- you're not _that_ sneaky, even if you have Nuada wrapped around your little finger. Hmph...)
> 
> Well I popped my smut cherry, I guess. I've never actually written any before, so I hope it's not godawful. Hahaha.
> 
> Goddamn, though: I had plot-related things to talk about in this chapter, too! :/ Guess we learn more about John and Nuada next chapter, when a visit to the BPRD is planned...  
> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooo! I am _so_ sorry for the long wait! But hey: you got a 20,000+ word prequel and 4 new chapters of this fic (which total something like... 5,000 words?).
> 
> So. Apology accepted? Y/N?

 

Although the evening is not particularly cold, Nuada knows that had his lover decided to take part in tonight’s heist at the BPRD’s research base, it would have been almost the first thing he would mention.  Well, or the other comment John had made in regards to the building itself while scrying for the map and the final piece of the crown.

 

“You are correct, my love— it seems as though the only rule for aesthetics in your government’s buildings is to fall under the descriptor of ‘remarkably ugly’.”

 

Scoffing, the prince stands up and brushes off any stray hair clinging to his person.  (By the gods, does nobody groom these poor creatures left to guard the building’s perimeter?)  Within moments, Nuada, scales his way up to the rooftop and paces his way over to what he recalls is the location John had described, yesterday, while briefing him on the base’s layout.

 

Typically, he would be able to more precisely pinpoint his sister’s exact location by way of their bond, but something has been interfering with his sense of it, as of late.  With John still ailing at their hideout, he had delayed this trip by a day to be completely sure he was truly on the road to recovery, and in the meantime, Nuada had made use of both Wink’s skillset, and his lover’s.   That is, between the two of them— John with a fresh set of scrying crystals and Wink with his huge network of informative relatives and allies— Nuala’s precise whereabouts had been easy to narrow down.

 

It would have likely been beneficial to bring along either of his two companions, but he had been determined not to put his still healing soulmate at any risk, and had left in the dead of night when the part-fae was deeply asleep.  And since Wink had not been told of his plan (the behemoth was a terrible liar, especially when it came to Nuada’s mate), he had been nowhere to be found in the subterranean lair.

 

There is no use dwelling over second thoughts when there is only one piece more to complete his golden crown, though, and a map of the Golden Army’s resting place to be found.  More pressingly, though, the tiny, charmed piece of chalk he had spent a pretty penny on at the Troll Market last week is slated to ‘die’, soon, if it is not used in the next few minutes.

 

Unsheathing his sword from its place at his back and positioning it defensively, he uses his other hand to quickly draw a circle about himself with the warm, sparking nib of red limestone.  He shifts his posture slightly in his crouch before inhaling deeply and dragging the remaining bit of smooth material a few inches to the left across dark asphalt to finally complete the loop.

 

The instant the roughly drawn shape is closed, the line burns a searing red and Nuada experiences the uncomfortable sensation of slowly sinking downward, straight through layers of concrete and whatever other materials, during which he briefly closes his eyes to avoid ending up disoriented.  Once the very top of his head clears the ceiling, though, he is falling the rest of the way to the floor at a normal speed. 

 

As planned, he lands safely in a crouch from which he fluidly transitions into a forward roll, popping up to his feet to glance wildly around himself.  Not a soul is nearby, and half of the room is covered in shoddy plaster, huge sheets of plastic, and all manner of other construction-related paraphernalia.

 

Right: it has been well over a year since John has worked here, so it makes sense that he would be unaware of any changes to the structure.  Changes like older, lesser used storage rooms and offices going under construction and being left temporarily uninhabited.

 

More relevantly, though, this means he has lost any element of surprise, mostly thanks to the terrain becoming unknown to him.  The frustrated prince swears and sets off in the first direction he feels inclined to, hoping his intuition will lead him true.  Something in the building is drawing him toward it, and he’s relatively sure it’s his sister.

 

*

 

John Myers will tell you straightaway that he is no intellectual prodigy or anything of the sort, and that that suits him just fine.  (He still ranks pretty far on the good side of the bell curve, after all.)

 

What he _has_ learned, though, is to trust his gut.  And when his gut had said to feign sleep when he and his lover turned in for bed after making plans to infiltrate the BPRD the next evening, he’d readily done so.  By the time Nuada silently rises from their bed and dons his carefully set aside battle leathers, John has muddled his way back up to full consciousness, biding his time, carefully.

 

He waits all of ten minutes after his lover departs to shoot unsteadily out of bed and quickly get dressed in his own spare set of battle leathers.  (The usual set has a rather prominent bullet hole in them, thanks to Hellboy.)  He sits down to pull on and then lace up his mahogany-hued boots, only just remembering that he still needs to touch bases with Mr. Wink.  He doubts there will be any need for his help, but having backup on standby is more useful than not, in his experience.

 

While he pulls on his gloves, he pops his head into one of the many rooms at the outskirts of Nuada’s subterranean hideaway, figuring this area is the correct one when he sees something like a dozen or so cave pixies scurrying about and making piles of what look like fireworks all over the dark, stone floor.

 

As soon as one of them spots him, three of the curious little beings scramble up the short flight of stairs to the doorway and nearly fall over themselves trying to greet him and pat at the laces and sides of his boots.  He is nowhere near proficient in Piskish— while traveling, he had been exposed far more to Truhlka and Elvish, thanks to Wink and Nuada— and thus the fast-paced chittering mostly goes right over his head.  John _thinks_ they are asking if he is feeling better, which is pretty obvious, contextually, when he thinks about it, but is also very much not the conversation he came here to have. 

 

He kneels down with a minor twinge of discomfort from his mostly healed wound, and allows them to grab his hand and vigorously shake it in a facsimile of a typical handshake for a few moments.  Sobering quickly, the part-fae loses the small, bemused smile he has worn throughout this short encounter with some of Nuada’s favourite little friends.

 

“Yes, yes.  Thanks for looking out for Wink and I, the other day— I’m feeling much better, now.  Actually, I have a favour to ask you that would be of great help to Prince Nuada.”

 

It is strange to see how some of the heads on the reedy, multi-headed little sprites often move and speak independently of one another, but in this case every single one of the three cave pixies nods however many heads they have in perfect unison.

 

“ _Awesome_.  So, I need you to find Wink and tell him where I’m going…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	7. Chapter 7

 

Nuada has been noiselessly stalking through mostly empty hallways for three or four minutes, only having had to dispatch one inattentive human wandering through the hall, who has since been left richer one hole in the chest, thanks to the elf’s quick swordwork.

 

That had been two or so minutes ago, and the base seems to be largely inactive at this time of night, unless he is _still_ nowhere near where he needs to be.  When he feels another, stronger tug at his awareness, his head swivels to look down a hallway and a moment later an enormous bang, clatter, and shout capture his attention.

 

Surely, if they have noticed his presence, they would already be upon him, so this seems simply to be a fortuitous, unrelated event that might benefit his efforts at making this a covert retrieval of the crown fragment.  Logic would tell him to utilize an alternate route and avoid the commotion, but a short detour nearby would serve to satisfy his curiosity, and without detracting from his mission, since he feels himself drawing closer to the beacon of energy calling out to him.

 

He slows his jog slightly in confusion when he sees a flash of light illuminate the end of the corridor, followed by several cries of alarm and a spate of gunfire that is abruptly cut off with a clattering sound and the wet sound of metal piercing flesh.

 

It cannot be….

 

A well-dressed swan maiden (and when was the last time he had seen an Alquan in person) squawks and trips over herself trying to flee down the hallway perpendicular to the one he is in, but collapses heavily in a whirl of black and white feathers when the airborne body of a portly human, similarly well-dressed, collides harshly with her back.  Meanwhile, another round of gunfire cuts through the sound of heavy coughing and hacking that becomes more audible the closer he draws to the intersection of passageways.

 

His unbelievable theory is proven correct when the perplexed prince turns the corner to see the last person he expected engaged in battle with a flagging agent of the BPRD, who finally seems to have run out of ammo and hasn’t even the time to comprehend what is happening before the masked man wielding twin swords lodges one deep into the side of his neck, neatly removing his head from his shoulders.

 

Hearing or sensing something behind him, John spins around, still in battle stance, swords at the ready, only to encounter his lover standing, frozen, a distance away, looking a bit taken aback.

 

“Nuada?” he prompts, stepping over several people still struggling to wheeze around the effects of one of his more potent little gas bombs.  With a practice born of endless days of training, he slides one of his swords back into the sheathe at his back, but keeps the one in his offhand out, still wary of any possible threats

 

Said elf watches the approach of his _m'ranndii_ , who is lightly panting and dappled with a fair amount of blood from his opponents.  _This_ is what he was being led towards— not his sister, for whatever reason.  Regardless of his confusion over the strange mix-up and his worry about his lover risking his safety unnecessarily on his behalf, the impressive display of skill and its resulting carnage is definitely having an effect on him.

 

“John,” he half-growls, half-purrs, putting himself in his lover’s space in just a few strides, bearing him backward into a wall that is spattered with red.  The younger man grunts, slightly, at the impact, and blinks rapidly when the smooth, featureless mask is carelessly pulled up and off his face before dropping to the ground with a clang.  And then Nuada is on him, one hand tangled in the mussed locks at the back of his head, tilting his head up ever so slightly at a better angle, and the other firmly locked around his hip, pulling their lower bodies close enough for him to feel exactly how ‘impressed’ his lover is with his performance.

 

As soon as Nuada pulls the part-fae’s tongue forward into his own mouth enough to bite it sharply, John’s legs nearly turn to jelly and he seems to shake himself and return the moment, pushing away his amorous lover, who is truly ready to spend several moments on an admittedly ill-timed tryst in the hallway of the building they are infiltrating.

 

“ _Jesus_ , Nuada!” John chuckles, licking kiss-swollen red lips, looking both rueful and bewildered.  “Later!  We can— we’ll finish this, later.  Now go!  I’m buying you time enough to get the map and crown _quietly_.  Nuala was in the library— down that way, and to the left— last I checked.”

 

Nuada’s mate scoops up his fallen mask from the floor and then turns to press a fleeting peck to his lover’s lips, smirking wickedly before donning the disguise again, and dashing off down another small hallway, from which another series of shouts issues just before smoke comes rolling out into the main corridor, again.

 

 _Amazing_ , the warrior prince thinks to himself, clearing his head of the lusty notions it had been consumed with a mere minute ago.

 

On silent feet, he swiftly approaches the library using the directions he has been given, and soon finds himself at the entrance, its ornate doors already swung open.  And at this distance he is able to more clearly identify the bond between he and his sibling, although there is no need to use it to locate her, as she is already in plain sight, wringing her hands and leaning over a neat little fireplace.

 

Among the embers and burning sections of wood, he spies the charred remains of the paper scroll right alongside the red-hot, metal canister which was made to contain it.  A triumphant smile overtakes his features as he makes his way closer: not one of these people, including Nuala, have any idea of exactly how to use tools they have in their possession, or even what they actually are.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _M’ranndii_  - **Mate **.** _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. John kinda' figured his guy might try and pull something like this.
> 
> Also? _Again_ , these two are ridiculous: not one part of my original idea/bare outline for this chapter featured them getting halfway to a quickie at possibly the worst time and place possible. Stop it, you guys. jfcc  
> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If a hell of a lot of lines seem familiar, it's because I kept a _lot_ of the dialogue as it was in the film (but, I also added, changed, rewrote, etc. a _bunch of it_. It's like I said in the summary: "Some events look quite a bit like canon, but even more do not."

“Very quick of you,” comes the smooth tone of Nuala's twin from mere feet behind her, startling a terrified gasp from the princess before she has any hope of stifling the somewhat embarrassing noise.  Nuada had always had the capability to move quietly, but after the great war against Man, he seems to have trained away the need to make any noise whatsoever with his steps.

 

Her throat noisily clicks and she comforts herself with the knowledge that at least the map and any information pursuant to the Golden Army’s location has been destroyed.  His eyes, darker than her own in a way they had not been when they were young flicker past her features and down to the flames licking at the walls of the hearth.

 

“The parchment,” he says, stepping forward as she readily allows him space to do so, “was of no importance.”

 

His hand closes around the overlooked container for the map which glows vermilion with heat, leveraging their kind’s tremendous tolerance for extreme temperatures.

 

“The cylinder,” he breathes, glancing at the item in question, turning it about in the light and observing the raised etchings all along its surface, “is very interesting.”

 

Pulled along by a sense of foreboding dread, Nuala feels almost helpless in the face of the inherent threat of physical violence her brother represents, even as it would be paid back to him in kind, and trails after him to the table on which he sets down the rescued canister.

 

The polished wood hisses as the container rolls over its surface and singes an imprint of the detailed map across its width.

 

“We will find the Golden Army here,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else, brushing pale fingertips over a portion of the makeshift map which still releases smoke smelling of burnt lumber.

 

How could they all have missed it?  If only she had had the time to ask Father about more of the details surrounding any of these seemingly ineffective safeguards before his untimely end.  He certainly would never have spoken of it after _Alath’en_ had been taken from them— in their reticence about the murdered queen, her brother and father had always been similar.  Would she, too, meet her end violently, as her mother before her?  And would it be at the hands of Nuada, like their father?

 

“As for the crown piece…” His regard returns to her.  “I know it’s here: I can feel that much from you.”

 

When her sibling growls and grasps her jaw roughly in his hand to turn her defiant gaze to his own, she steels herself against the intensified slew of sickening feelings she can feel emanating from the ruthless elf before her, now that they are in physical contact.

 

For a moment, she is almost overwhelmed by the potent anger and frustration of his so far fruitless search for the final fragment to the diadem he so desires.  There is also another burgeoning block of emotions that is something the younger sibling has never felt with such intensity from him— it is an oddly warm-feeling mixture of concern, anticipation, and what almost seems like an untainted romantic love.  _Surely_ , these are not meant for _her_.

 

“Father always tried so hard to shield your heart from mine, lest I _corrupt_ you with my ‘dark’ thoughts and violent nature.”

 

Dazed from the rollercoaster of emotions, she finally pulls up her substantial mental walls just as he releases his bruising grip from about her face with a scoff, walking backwards towards a packed bookcase.  Her glare, though tremulous in nature holds strong and she wills him with all her might to not find her overtly sentimental hiding place for the gilded piece of the powerful coronet.

 

“But the piece _is_ in one of the books; I know.  And I _will_ find it.”

 

His hands glide over the multicolored spines at random until some sort of hint or intuition guides his hand to a specific tome, which he plucks out and flips through, quickly, monitoring her reaction all the while.

 

“Ah, blue,” he remarks, conversationally, as if discussing something as mild as the weather.  “You’ve always looked so beautiful in blue.”

 

The thump of the discarded encyclopedia has her flinching as her tension ratchets up.  Nuada reaches for another, smaller book, this time and is quick to flip it open and thumb through all the pages.

 

“ _Blue_ ,” he says, again, impatience growing and poorly concealed.  “Poetry.  _Love_ , found and lost.”

 

 _Ha’ksh_!  Any second now, and he will narrow down his focus to the correct book. Nuala’s blood runs cold and hot and her body locks up as she falls into indecision about what action to take.  In her mounting nervousness, her eyes involuntarily dart over to the correct location, only several shelves away, and then to the little button she hopes will bring the cavalry.

 

Her brother fairly throws the collection of poetry to the carpeted floor and shoots her his own acidic glare, full of promise.

 

“Mark my words— I _will_ find it.”

 

The moment she deems him to have reached a sufficient enough distance from her, she lunges for the small black button marked ‘Emergency’, and startles when an awful, loud alarm blares in tandem with red lights that flash outside the open doorway.  The grip on her forearm is bruising as Nuada searchingly looks deep into her eyes and pulls her away from the wall, briefly noting her unapologetic mien.

 

“Why?” he says, simply.  His quiet, disbelieving tone is at odds with the deep sense of betrayal and disgust she feels welling up within him.  He truly seems to have a greater variety of emotions and at greater intensity than she remembers him having in ages.

 

The incomprehensible sight of her Intended stumbling in through the doorway and straight towards her has her thoughts running in myriad directions at panicked lightspeed, utterly throwing her demented brother’s wild emotional state onto the backburner.  Her heart beats fast enough fit to dance right out of her chest.

 

“Abraham!” she cries, breaking free of the slackened hold on her wrist to hold out a placating hand, fingers splayed in a near-universal gesture to cease all movement.  “ _No_ — don’t!  He’ll kill you!”

 

“Princess?” he slurs, blearily blinking guileless eyes and listing to one side, dangerously.

 

The typically graceful Ichthyo sapien fumbles the case of what looks (and smells) to be ale, in an effort to conceal it behind his back, and drops an open container of it next to the stairs on which he stands, swaying.

 

“ _Abraham_?” Nuada says, glancing between the two of them and noting their familiarity with one another.  He switches back to their native tongue, as one tends to do when upset.  “You speak to him as if he is your Intended?”

 

Something about the exchange— or perhaps who it is with— seems to incense Nuada, who clearly does not approve of her choice of a mate, as is indicated by the knife blade cleanly piercing the tender skin of her cheek.

 

“I _will_ kill you, ‘Abraham’, he reassures the room at large, unperturbed by the blood running from the fresh, matching wound on his face, “and anyone else, if that is necessary.”

 

The gash just under Nuala’s cheekbone stings fiercely as her brother digs the knife in more viciously for a moment before swinging it wide with a flourish and dropping it down.

 

At that moment, a leather booted foot steps through a luminescent, semi-oblong circle that sparks to life over a wall adjacent to both the BPRD's forces at the library’s door, and the Bethmooran crown royalty’s ongoing hostage situation.  A number of black-suited agents have trouble deciding which threat is the most pressing, as the figure clad in a bloodstained outfit of a similar make as that of both elven siblings steps all the way through the imperfect outline of a circle and drops a sparking piece of red chalk onto the floor.

 

“Don’t leave me out of the festivities, if you decide to start.”

 

“Oh my!  Izzat… ‘re you—?  _Agent Myers_?”  Abe exclaims hiccuping halfway through his rambling epiphany.  “It _wuz_ you at th’ Troll M’rket!”

 

“Mhm,” the masked man responds, seemingly preoccupied with patting down a small satchel at his side, obviously in search of something.

 

Nuala squints at this disguised being, trying to understand what it is about them that tugs at a strange part of her brain.  She already knows it is the same man from the Troll Market, who had been injured while helping Wink, but there is something more at work, here, she is sure.

 

The sea of BPRD agents parts to allow _another_ person to join the curious tableau in the library.

 

“Well,” Hellboy says, swaggering down steps nearly as red as his skin, up until he half-trips down the last few, “if you’re looking for ‘anyone else’, then why don’t you just start with _me_ , your Royal Ass-ness.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _Alath’en_ - **Mother. _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 ** _Hak'sh_**  - Shit.  _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that? I pretty much removed the incest-y vibe between the Nu Twins? Sorry, not sorry. (If it makes any sense, there is an actual reason, and said incest-y vibe will be addressed in the third story in the series... whenever I get to it.)  
> Also? Super time-consuming trying to put together a curse word in 'Bethmooran' elvish, for whatever reason. (Again, cobbling together 'Drowish' and 'Tolkien' elvish with what I can hear from the film, is an adventure.)  
> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	9. Chapter 9

 

Warily, Nuala watches the proceedings; her Abraham is not a warrior, but his brother-at-arms _is_.  She only worries that in his inebriated state, he does not stand much of a chance against her brother’s insurmountable amounts of combat experience and skill.  (Truly, she is not sure how well he would fare even fully sober, but she dares not consider the scenario.)

 

Ever at the ready for any form of battle, her sibling’s interest is clearly piqued, and she watches trepidatiously as he accepts the challenge.

 

“And your weapon of choice?”

 

“Five-finger Mary,” the sarcastic demon drawls, lifting his huge, stone hand.

 

Nuada smoothly steps forward and brushes by her, whispering “You move, and I’ll kill your Abraham first,” leaving Nuala’s fists clenched, impotently.

 

As he comes to stand directly in front of her Intended and his brawny comrade, her twin extends his lance and goes through a showy (but still intimidating) display of lightning-fast strikes and katas with his favoured weapon.  Hellboy and Abe both look a bit taken aback at the demonstration, and the former’s face only looks even more concerned when his friend emphatically explains the peculiar constraint of the fight ahead.

 

“Red, you mustn’t harm th’ prince.”

 

Hellboy peers at his teammate out the corner of his eyes, trying not to lose sight of his enemy.

 

“What?” He grunts, flatly.

 

“If you hurt _him_ , you hurt the princess!”

 

The irritated demon’s muttered “you gotta be _kiddin_ ’ me,” is nearly drowned out by the rapidfire flurry of blows that leave crumbled bits of stone flying up in powder form from each point of impact against his stone arm.  A partially dodged strike that glances across Hellboy’s straggling right leg delivers the demon on his knees in the perfect position for Nuada to rest the lance’s deadly blade against his vulnerable throat.

 

“Will you give me the crown piece?” Nuada asks, his gaze calm but piercing when it meets hers.

 

She clenches her fists slightly and refuses, averting her gaze from the fate she might be condemning her new ally to.

 

“No.”

 

 With his neck still in contact with the tip of the deadly lance, Hellboy glares at the dour prince, before snarling and knocking the whole staff away with his stone arm, only to have it be swung around to rest against the _other_ side of his neck.  Nuala fairly flinches when her brother knocks him down even further into sprawling humiliatingly belly-up on the floor.

 

“ _The piece_ ,” he insists.

 

“No,” she exhales, tremulously.  Where will he stop?  Or rather, what will it take for her to yield to his demand?  She looks desperately to Abraham, hoping for some solution to the dilemma to present itself.

 

This time, Hellboy takes better advantage of Nuada’s distraction and fully grabs onto the pole in order to tug the elf off balance and break his stance enough to try and move inside his guard for some hand to hand engagement or even in hopes of disarming his scowling opponent.

 

What follows is a more evenly matched exchange of blows, once he is knocked back out to a distance by way of breaking through both a desk and a chair.

 

“Abe!”  The beleaguered BPRD agent rumbles, glancing mulishly at the unruffled masked male leaning unobtrusively against the far wall, arms crossed, but unerringly following every second of the fight.  “If I can’t- ugh!  If I can’t touch _him_ , what about the turncoat ov- ah! Over there!”

 

Nuada _snarls_ , then, and moves to completely block Hellboy’s sightline, stalking closer with a fresh fire in his eyes.  (And _this_ explains the feedback Nuala had gotten, earlier: all those strange new emotions in her brother are linked to this mysterious ‘Myers’ person.)

 

With an impressive leap (vaulting off the other male’s bent leg, in fact), the Bethmooran prince springs over his opponent’s head, twisting in midair and thwacking the unguarded back hard enough to send the six-foot-tall being crashing to the ground.

 

“Demon,” Nuada says, darkly, “you will _never_ again have the opportunity to so much as _converse_ with my mate, much less even _dream_ of touching him.”

 

The tension of the fight is slightly broken up when Elizabeth arrives, interrupting Abraham’s apology to his downtrodden teammate.  Nuala’s attention is on her Intended, as she wrings her hands, and she, too, is taken by surprise when her twin stalks forward in the blink of an eye and thrusts the blade of his lance deep into Hellboy’s chest.  The demon had spun back around to face the imminent threat at a shouted warning from his own mate, only to encounter his probable demise.

 

“You may have mused in the past, ‘am I mortal?’ ” the prince intones almost soothingly.

 

The sound of Nuada jerking his lance back, less one of its infinite number of blades, is visceral, and Nuala’s pale hands cover her mouth in horror at the show of wanton, casual violence.  The wounded demon gasps audibly at the sharp movement, too, glancing up from the lance-tip embedded in his torso to bring unfocused eyes up to meet those of his attacker.

 

“You are, now,” he concludes.

 

At that point, Nuala shuts down, believing herself to have just witnessed the senseless murder of one of her new allies— a close friend of her Intended, at that— completely at her expense.  Her body remains standing, she is sure, but most of her mind goes elsewhere, in an effort to escape the rending pain from her heart and the fresh flood of brutal sentiments she feels radiating from her brother, now that he has again clamped onto her arm.

 

Nuada pontificates on the fate of his dying opponent, and waxes on for a moment about how the BPRD base, itself, is no stranger to death.  He then addresses Abe, directly, telling him to retrieve the final piece of the crown and deliver it to him, if the Icthyo sapiens ever wishes to see her again.  (If she were of sound mind, she would tell him not to even bother, but truly, she is too far gone at this point.)

 

Her twin tugs her back, harshly, and she blinks rapidly when a calloused hand clamps over her eyes.  The tinkling of several metallic objects rolling by captures her attention, until with a hiss and a loud bang, the object seems to implode.

 

“Come, _selnir_ : we must make our escape now,” her brother murmurs.

 

When her obscured surroundings are unveiled, it is to reveal thick, cloying smoke, which somehow seems to completely blanket the large room.  Two glowing points of bright blue light materialize among the opaque clouds, eventually becoming identifiable as the eyes behind the eerie mask.

 

With a strength not belied by his relative height, he grabs both elves by their elbows and drags them toward a section of carpeted flooring marked by two large, concentric rings made of glittering ice and frost.

 

“Let’s go, guys— before the bombs’ effects wear off and we end up looking like magical creature swiss cheese,” he says, out of breath, and jerks his head in the direction of the snowy design.

 

Almost too quickly to register, the Bethmooran princess sees his head turn back towards the spot where Hellboy might still lie, dying, if visibility were not diminished.  Hardly an instant later, though, he strides into the circles and promptly vanishes.  A split second afterward, Nuala is pulled forward by Nuada to follow his companion’s example, and then she is stepping into black, icy nothingness.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _Selnir_ - **Sister. _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, our resident part-fae _did_ just make his very first faerie ring. 
> 
> (Wrote this chapter while severely sleep-deprived, so wish me luck when I properly re-read this unbeta'd thing when fully awake. #stillworththewait? #haha )
> 
> P.S. Bored? Take a look at the unintentionally long prequel I posted, simultaneously: [Deep Roots (Un)Touched by Frost](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12791544).  
> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Broke my writer's block to finally earn that 'Explicit' rating! I hope. hahaha
> 
> Anyway, wrote too long of a smut scene, so had to cut it into 2 chapters to keep them at _about_ the same length as I've been trying to so far. Sorry if the jump's bothersome.

 

It has been well over a century since Nuada traveled by way of a _val’e quness_ , and he has to surreptitiously blink a few times to regain his bearings, subconsciously sending a helpful echo down his bond to his sibling and prompting her to reacclimate more quickly than she would have otherwise.

 

A short distance from their side, Wink is steadying John— who sways woozily for several moments— with one giant hand that fully encompasses the fae’s shoulder.  Furrowing his brows, the exiled prince moves in their direction with Nuala in tow, but by the time he draws near just seconds later, John is patting Wink’s massive paw and stepping away with a soft “I’m alright,” in Truhlka.

 

With hardly a thought, Nuada steps over to the cave troll and hands off his quiescent sibling to Wink.

 

“Watch her: she should be no trouble, but seems to have grown quite ‘rebellious’ as of late,” he muses with a bit of idle curiosity.

 

John sees that the group is complete and starts walking toward the familiar tree-lined property ahead, clearly ready for some rest in a warm, comfortable bed.  (And likely some facsimile of a meal, too, if the audible grumbling of his stomach is to be believed.)

 

The likewise tired prince outpaces his lover— whose gloved hand he briefly squeezes as he walks by— and allows the powerful protection wards and charms around the property to recognize first him, and then the others trailing behind him.  The fleeting brush of a hand dances over his shoulder as his still-disguised mate moves past him to easily open the tall front doors and disappear into the palatial house.

 

Wink and Nuala move past him next, and he allows the gate to close behind them, resealing the defensive magics all around them.  Looking out at the still night around him, briefly, he soon follows the pair indoors, pausing to pull the weighty doors shut at their backs with a creaky ‘whumph’.

 

“We depart just after dawn’s first light, tomorrow.  Separately, at first, and then you and John shall rendezvous at an initial location before meeting Nuala and I at the barracks.  We shall review the finer details in the morning, though, as the hour is growing late.”

 

Wink inclines his head in understanding and grunts an acknowledgement of his words.

 

Nuada’s gaze finds his sister’s, then— or rather her pained, distant gaze, which is mostly vacant, save for the pinched look around her eyes’ edges that has always belied when she is upset with him.  That is of course to be expected in this case, though, so when he takes a moment to examine their bond, he ignores that particular coil of sentiments.

 

It is harder work than it has been, traditionally and everything feels muddied as he pokes around, leaving him a bit irritated.  Instead of dwelling on something he has no means nor a particularly acute desire to either mend or investigate in the near future, he resolves to turn in for the evening.

 

“Get some rest, _selnir,_ as we leave bright and early, and you wouldn’t want to disappoint your Intended by looking anything but your _best_ , mm?  You may redress in whatever is brought up from your quarters, in the morning.”

 

Nuada has been told that arrogance is a supremely unattractive quality (most recently by his own mate), and he is usually self-aware of his shortcomings, but sometimes, he can barely help himself— this most recent incident included, obviously.

 

With a nod in his personal guard’s direction, he heads toward his bedroom, wondering if said mate might very well already be in bed.

 

Somewhere behind him, he notes Wink escorting Nuala to a room in the same corridor as his own, likely because Nuala could make less chaos in an arbitrary bedroom than Wink’s or her own, should the foolish notion of escape enter her mind.  His long-lived bodyguard’s race needs far less sleep (a few hours every few days) than many others, so chances are minimal such a thing will happen with the hulking troll up and alert for any such thing.

 

Entering his quarters and closing the door behind him, Nuada immediately spots John in the bedchambers, leisurely pulling off armor spattered in dried blood that is beginning to easily flakes off.  (Some time will surely be allotted in the near future to dedicate purely to cleaning that day’s leathers.)

 

Without prompting, a gloriously unmasked John turns about as his lover approaches, intuitively aware of his presence, even as he’d moved soundlessly.  Nuada is— as always— a bit awestruck when his _m’ranndii_ allows a smile to spread across his lips.  His eyes are also all but glowing, still, high from his use of fae power.

 

“ _A’mael_ …” he says softly, but intensely, lifting a hand to cup the side of the man’s face, where the prickly start of stubble is tangible.

 

In response to the tender gesture, the cooled fire in the part-fae’s eyes burns fiercer.

 

“I know, Noden.  I love you, too.”

 

Unbidden, their mouths meet in a passionate embrace, tongues soon tangling in an ardent dance that has them panting at the heat building between their bodies.  Truly, Nuada might have gone on endlessly meshing their mouths together if not for his flushed lover drawing back and pulling him briefly forward towards the bed with a finger hooked in the waist of his fitted trousers.

 

The prince licks his lips and sets desire-darkened eyes upon his mate while making very quick work of stripping down to bare skin.   John shimmies out of his own leather bottoms and lays out comfortably on several pillows, looking wanton as ever the whole while, eventually raising an eyebrow at the other male’s momentary, distracted pause.

 

“Come on, _Your Highness_.  Thought you wanted to pick up where we left off earl—“

 

A surprised shriek erupts from the younger man when he is suddenly tugged toward the bed’s edge by his ankles, leaving him flat on his back while his lover crawls up onto the bedding, gaze predatory all the while.

 

A grin teases at the edge of darkened lips as Nuada possessively caresses up John’s calves and up the inside of his thighs, being sure to brush against the twitching erection as he settles his hands over hips that reflexively jump up at his teasing attentions.

 

“Do I not seem eager to continue our postponed mid-siege tryst, _Ussta Ai_?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 **_Val’e quness_ ** _\- Fairy ring.  ( Bethmooran Elvish)_

 **_Selnir -_ ** _Sister._ __(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_  _

 ** _M’ranndii_  - **Mate **.** _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 ** _A’mael_ - **Beloved **.** _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 ** _Ussta Ai_  - **Little One **.** _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	11. Chapter 11

 

Aiming both to please _and_ vex his bedmate, the prince moves the man ever-so-slightly lower by way of his secure grip on his hips.  The disgruntled comment John appears to be about to utter instead comes out as a choked moan when Nuada easily swallows his manhood down to the root.

 

“J- _Jesus_ , Nuada.  Playing— _mmn_ — dirty tonight, huh?”

 

Feeling just a bit wicked, said elf pulls back until he is applying suction just to the head of the flushed erection, and hums in agreement, tightly jerking near the base, simultaneously.

 

John fairly shoots up and slides his hands into sweat-damp, white blonde hair.

 

“Ah!  Y-you, you _tease_ ,” the former BPRD agent gets out, meeting fierce eyes that never leave his own as the agonizingly unhurried worship of his cock continues.  Nuada _does_  occasionally have a mean streak for drawing things out and making his mate suffer a bit for his pleasure, but like it so often happens, as he pulls increasingly breathy, uncontrolled whimpers and breathy groans from his hyper-attractive mate, Nuada finds it harder and harder to ignore his own growing needs.

 

Thus, with a soft ‘pop’, he pulls back from his self-appointed task and lets the spit-slick phallus before him come to lie against the toned stomach of his quarry.

 

“Up, John,” he murmurs in a voice gone rough for a variety of obvious reasons, tapping one bare flank as a prompt for movement.

 

Catching onto the other male’s shift in desires, the fae retrieves a small jar of pleasantly scented oil from a low stand near the bed’s head and presses it into Nuada’s hands.  Then, in a smooth series of movements that requires no spoken words, they rearrange themselves with relative alacrity, ending up with John straddling Nuada’s lap on his knees.

 

John has to angle his hips back slightly to make it easier for his lover’s slickened finger to make its way into his entrance, but the change in position is an advantageous one, as his erection comes into glorious contact with his partner’s with every movement of his pelvis.

 

Nuada enjoys the smaller man’s sinuous grinding motions while fingering him open, as it’s about the first bit of stimulation for his heretofore neglected manhood.  The transition from one finger to three is a blurry one filled with gasps, groans, and sweat-dappled skin sliding against sweat-dappled skin.

 

The Bethmooran prince has moved on to leaving absent-minded love bites along his lover’s collarbone, when John guides his head back up into a short, tender kiss.  And then a hungry, somewhat mischievous expression overtakes the winsome features of the part-fae as he lightly pushes on Nuada’s muscled chest.

 

Far too eager for what comes next to make any additional smart comments, Nuada catches onto John’s intentions and lies out flat, further up on the bed, watching as John again straddles him.  Settling into just the right place, the younger man sits forward and grasps the elf’s turgid length in one lube-wet hand, smoothing more of the slightly fragrant oil along the shaft, which jerks in his hand at the heavy stimulation.

 

Seconds later, Nuada sighs in relief as tight, wet heat finally begins sheathing his pulsing member.  He only _just_ perseveres in keeping his eyes slitted open against the currents of pleasure, and is rewarded with the sight of his lover slowly sinking down onto his not insignificant length **.** The enchanting fae bites his lower lip and half-stifles a breathy keen as he is filled thoroughly at an angle that ensures his orgasm will not be too far off if he so wishes.

 

Licking his lips and meeting pale ultramarine eyes as they flutter open, Nuada drags his hands up the other’s thighs and clenches alabaster fingers roughly into both hipbones as John commits to a, frankly, torturously unhurried ride.

 

Several long minutes later, and both are breathing heavily and sheened in sweat, electricity burning between them where they dare not look away from one another.  The part-fae’s mouth hangs open as he releases quiet, huffed out exhalations of elation every time he sinks down and is filled anew.

 

“F-fuck. _Nuada_ ,” he gasps out, pleadingly, falling forward mostly onto Nuada’s chest, his hips working faster, even as his body’s exhaustion has him resorting to more primal rocking and corkscrewing motions to chase his pleasure.

 

Nuada, who has been content to allow bedmate to find his own satisfaction, uses the opportunity to draw the man into a filthy kiss and bend a knee up in order to get better leverage to thrust powerfully into the tantalizing heat around his cock.  Growling as the younger male breaks their liplock and fairly shouts his pleasure into the elf’s shoulder, Nuada grabs one firm buttock and wraps his other arm around his lover before expertly flipping them over.

 

“ _My_ turn,” he pronounces, short of breath, shaking several hairs out of his face.

 

Without ado, he begins pistoning his hips at a pace he knows will serve both to satiate his own carnal appetite and drive the younger man wild.  And so it does— drawing one incredibly loud cry from John before the elf overtop of him manages to slap a hand over his mouth and muffle the building vocalisations of bliss.

 

With one hand, he coaxes the fae to lift exhausted, trembling legs higher up Nuada’s sides and around his waist, and the shift immediately benefits them both: John’s hole starts fluttering in sanity-stealing waves, pulling his older lover closer to the edge with every passing moment.

 

“ _Hak’sh_ ,” he growls, feeling his climax creep up on him steadily.

 

John’s back arches off the bed when he grips his own cock and strips it mercilessly, something his lover tends to enjoy doing himself when his hands aren’t already occupied.  At that moment, said lover is resting nearly all his weight on one elbow, and using the other hand to prevent John from irking Wink (and very possibly waking up the entire surrounding hamlet).

 

As it is, only a few strokes later and the fae is coming with an almost embarrassing whimper, striping his spasming ab muscles with thick ropes of cum.  Nuada follows just after, his powerful orgasm agonizingly wrung out from him by deliciously contracting muscles around his cock, a low groan being punched out by the long-awaited release.

 

In the aftermath, the absolutely shattered prince slides his hand from overtop of red, bite-swollen lips and rests half of his weight on that arm, giving the other one a bit of a break.  Meanwhile, John unlocks his ankles from around the elf’s back and gradually drops his legs to rest comfortably on the bed, grinning as his lover lowers himself to let their bodies come into nearly full contact.

 

Their breaths eventually return to a more normal pace and quiet falls around them and their intimate little bubble.

 

“Noden…” John begins, gaze tender as he smiles beatifically— if a little dazedly.

 

“Mm,” said elf replies, relishing in the skin-on-skin contact with the other man, even as the air around them begins to feel rather a bit too cool. “I know, _Melar_.  I love you, too.  _En’oio_.”

 

Their bodies remain joined in the most intimate of ways as Nuada dips his head down to bring their lips together for a series of warm, reassuring kisses.  They indulge in this most simple of pleasures for several long minutes before nature takes its course and Nuada’s softening member begins to slide free of John’s welcoming entrance.

 

Within a quarter of an hour, both men are wiped clean with damp washcloths and are comfortably tangled up in one another’s embrace, dead to the world and all its patiently waiting troubles.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _Hak'sh_**  - Shit.  _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 ** _Melar_**  - Love (noun, as in the endearment).  _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 ** _En’oio_ - **Forever **.** _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 

(If I haven't mentioned it before or recently, 'Noden' is Nuada's true/family name.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! That is for sure the lengthiest and most explicit smut scene I have _ever_ written. Which sort of figures, as it's, like, the 3rd or so one. Haha.  
>  *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If you missed it, the most recent update a few days ago started with ch. 10-- go back and start there if it's been a while since you checked in! c; )
> 
> Posting these last 3 chapters in the wee hours of the morning, after having fallen asleep partway through the task earlier. I can't wait til Awake!me starts finding all the typos. haha

 

It all starts going to hell not too far into that next day.

 

The plan had been for Nuada and his sister to arrive at the entrance to the Golden Army’s barracks first, just ahead of the rest of his companions— this occurring after Mr. Wink met up with John in order to hand off a highly sought-after, secret bargaining chip to be used in gaining the banished Fate’s favour.

 

Except that when the part-fae arrives at the location Wink had described in great detail, the cave troll himself is not present.  The young man doesn’t need the gift of Intuition that sometimes favors his lover to know that something is definitely off.

 

Warily casting his gaze about once more to search for even a hint of either the familiar, hulking figure or the accompanying proportionately enormous woolly rhino, John resolves to wait a few minutes longer for the tardy body guard.

 

*

 

Twenty anxious minutes pass before John reluctantly dismounts his uncharacteristically antsy horse, Boann, and steps closer to a particularly smooth cluster of rocks that very closely resembles a curled-up hand.

 

He takes out a nearly non-existent stub of plain white chalk and carefully scrawls three runes atop the knuckle of one gargantuan finger before stepping back several paces.

 

The weathered, brown rock hand tightens once, sending John scrambling back from the surreal spectacle for a moment.  His vivid blue eyes widen, and only a thread of wherewithal keeps him from outright gaping as a gigantic, humanoid figure comprised entirely of stone and soil rises up out of the earth.

 

“Well, _damn_ ,” he whispers to himself emphatically.

 

The appearance and opening of the cave entrance is enough to sober John back up, and by the time he steps forward through the portway, he has also managed to marshal his concealed expression into one befitting the significance of the imminent meeting.

 

It again occurs to him that he does not have the mysterious, super valuable item that Wink and Nuada had planned for them to use as leverage in this exact situation.

 

The unnerving, towering figure of the Forgotten Fate is facing towards him when he enters, and John hopes it can’t see how his thoughts whirl around his head at dizzying speeds as he tries (and fails) to think of anything he can barter for the favourable tilt in Nuada’s direction that he’s been sent to procure.

 

Everything about this being and this place sets off John’s animal ‘flight’ instinct, but he presses on and instead draws closer to the room’s sole other occupant.  When he goes to one knee in deference to the timeless being, it sweeps forward in a smooth gliding motion before bidding him to fully lift his gaze to rest upon its inhuman visage.  Warily, the fae does his level best not to meet eyes with any of the myriad moving eyeballs embedded amongst the charcoal-dark feathers of its several wings.

 

“Speak,” the crackling voice hisses, sounding both ominous and indulgent.

 

Steeling himself, John fills himself with confident determination and speaks the words he, Nuada, and Wink had decided on just this morning.

 

“We—” he begins, before pausing and reconsidering what he is about to say.  He is _supposed_ to lobby for Nuada’s goal of commanding and awaking the Golden Army, but maybe the big picture is a better target.  That way, the end result would be guaranteed— or so he reasons. 

 

John blinks and considers his options before starting again.

 

“We… would see that Earth, in its entirety, is healed of the ravages Mankind has wreaked upon it in the intervening years since The Great War of Broken Treaties.”

 

The willowy, but still eminently intimidating being, tilts its head one way and then the other, as though listening to something that John himself cannot hear.  Knowing better than to shift his attention elsewhere before a deal is struck— something both Nuada _and_ Wink had been sure to mention— he patiently, impassively focuses on the spot just above its ‘nose’, where one would find eyes on most humanoid races.

 

At last, the otherworldly creature seems to give him its full regard (or so it seems, based on the way the vast majority of piercing eyeballs on splayed wings turn to follow him).

 

“Hmmyess.  This I can help you with, Johnathan Connor Myers.  It will cause no conflict with other Events that must come to be in this world.”

 

Long, thin arms sweep slowly outward, gesturing toward the dust-covered floor on which it stands, in which are engraved scenes and maps left mostly obscured from sight— almost definitely by design.  The weight of a hundred eyes or more bears down on him when the Forgotten Fate seemingly relaxes its wings as it moves forward well into his personal space.

 

John is helpless but to close his eyes as a forearm covered in weathered, greyish skin extends toward his face.  There is the briefest moment of contact with a spindly finger against his temple and another a few inches lower in a similar place on the opposite side of his head.  Sweat trickles down the small of his back as the cool, scaly digits slide forward along the edges of his face and easily pluck the enchanted mask he practically lives in right off.

 

Cool air sweeps over him in several quick waves, and he releases the breath he hadn’t realized was trapped in his lungs.  When he opens his eyes, the long, gauzy strips of fabric skimming along the being’s sides are still fluttering.

 

“This,” it rasps, holding the burnished piece of magical metal in its grasp, “is payment enough.  I hold your Anonymity; there will be no hiding from your fate, now, Faeling."

 

The Forgotten Fate straightens its posture to return to its full, imposing height, seeming to relax its wings when it does so.

 

“You are much like another lovestruck, loyal being who bargained with me not long ago: so prepared to ensure another’s well-being at the probable cost of your own.  Hm.”

 

John isn’t sure if the observation skews more toward curiosity or to condemnation, but neither would change his heart or mind in their unfaltering devotion to his other half, anyway.  He remains kneeling, waiting for whatever comes next, growing impatience itching and pinching at his skin all the while.

 

Eventually, the being bows its head and angles its body to the side, slowly extending and then flicking the fingers of one hand in a clearly dismissive shooing gesture at its guest.

 

The young fae stands, bows ever-so-slightly at the waist, and then swiftly sprints across the long, rickety bridge leading to the exit, feeling hyperaware of how very naked he feels without his mask after having depended on its presence for so long.

 

He puts the missing disguise out of his mind, for now, as best as he can and squints as the midday sun hits him square in the eyes when he emerges back into the open world.

 

Right— back to business.

 

Locking his jaw, John mounts Boann **,** who had been anxiously pacing about before his arrival, and takes off toward the barracks of the Golden Army without a backward glance.

 

*

 

Not all too far away, Nuada grits his teeth and only _just_ restrains himself from heading over to the Meddler’s Keep, where John and Wink were supposed to make a quick stop-off ahead of rendezvousing with him, here, to provide backup for the confrontation with Anung Un Rama, his sister’s Intended, and the rest of their ragtag bunch.

 

“ _Tes’ka_ ,” he mutters, sotto voce.

 

The agreed-upon meeting time has passed, yes, but there is only one opportunity to acquire the crown’s final piece while he has the unique leverage of his recalcitrant sibling.

 

He has faith in his mate’s survivability, and with Mr. Wink at his side, the young fae’s safety is well in hand, he reasons.  The elder of the twins sends off Édain with instructions to make herself scarce, before ushering his sullen, petulant sister inside the yawning entrance ahead of him.  As has been the case lately, he is having trouble getting a clear grasp of her emotions, so he settles for a wordless glare that carries the weight of a half-dozen dire warnings.

 

She looks away, putting out feelings somewhere between conflicted and hopeful, as he finds a path off to the side that will lead to the balcony overlooking the main platform as well as the decorative, motile gear-steps.

 

*

 

There is almost no warning before an unwelcome blast of chilly air sweeps across the open, grassy knolls around John, marking the arrival of some decidedly hostile company.

 

This is definitely a check in the ‘Anonymity = Gone’ column, as he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of a single contingent of the Winter Court since leaving Antarctica.  And it was a welcome break, what with how determined this fur-mantle-sporting bounty hunter seems to bring him down from atop his steed.

 

When one red-tinted crossbow bolt whizzes by close enough to his horse’s head to take a few locks of the poor mare’s glossy mane with it, John immediately twists neatly in place to throw the knife from the top of his boot in the attacker’s direction.

 

It mostly misses the creature, who deftly leans to one side, but it _does_ graze his neck, just above the barely-visible collar of a silvery jerkin.  The heavyset being sporting two curved, pale brown horns on its forehead— not unlike a goat’s— is close enough for John to hear as it curses.  Drawing on his training to quickly judge distance, timing, and speed, the part-fae selects one of his smaller bombs and tosses it just behind Boann’s pounding hooves.

 

A cloud of pure white smoke almost immediately spreads out behind him, sitting low to the ground and disorienting the vicious stagworg that has been steadily gaining on him.  He could continue riding toward his destination, but worry at being followed again nags heavily at him until he sharply steers them back toward their pursuer, who is now standing on the ground and trying to calm the disoriented, unsteady animal at his side.

 

John dismounts and unsheathes one sword from his back as he walks up.  The other rider does not look like the picture of perfect health, itself, its heather grey skin having rapidly lightened to a wan, sickly hue.  When it catches sight of its bounty approaching, its pupil-less violet eyes blaze with fury and shaking hands fumble with the crossbow at its side.

 

Hm.  Whatever species it is, the trace amount of debilitating hydra venom on his throwing blade’s edge seems to be extra potent— _deadly_ , even.  Constantly aware of how time continues ticking by, John affects an unmoving expression and then casually _whap_ s at the back of the bounty hunter’s wobbly legs with the flat of his blade.  The move sends the be-horned being to its knees with a loud “Oomph,” followed up by a bassy, nearly sub-vocal growl.

 

“You… you fight… dirty,” it rasps with difficulty in a timbre far more pleasing than John had anticipated.  “Ch- _cheap_.”

 

It spits a good amount of blue-tinged, frothy spittle to one side and glares at John’s features.  The part-fae sidesteps the mess before addressing the swaying Winter Court contractor, neatly cutting to the chase.

 

“Where are the rest of you?  Prince Chulainn isn’t in the habit of sending just one of you after a high-priority target.”

The goat-horned creature’s bald head is gleaming with perspiration as it tilts precariously to one side and, shortly, lies on the ground.  Amethyst irises meet blazing blue as the bounty hunter struggles to wheeze through panted jags of ugly laughter, grinning smugly.

 

“Th-the big idiot w-with the metal f’st wuzza much fairer fighter, haff t’ say, P-Prince’s _Pet_.  M-much, _much_ f-fairer…”

 

 _Wink_.  It suddenly feels colder than the effects of any cutting, ice-filled gust of wind could ever achieve.

 

Half-lidded, blood-shot eyes gaze up at the clear, blue sky, while its face and body go slack as a deep death rattle marks the hunter’s passage from this world to the next.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” John snarls, unfreezing as hot dread rolls down his spine, and sprints toward his awaiting horse **,** hardly getting in the saddle before taking off.

 

“ _Fuck_!” he repeats, feeling the press of time ever more acutely as the minutes fly by, an uneasy sense of… _something_ hanging over his head.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _Tes’ka_** \- Damn.  _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'The War of Broken Treaties' is the name I tacked on to the war mentioned at the start of the Golden Army movie, between humans and elves (and other supernatural beings??). And like the aforementioned war, I tossed away whatever bits of canon there are out there in regards to what I'm referring to as the Forgotten Fate. c:  
> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Possibly a bit spoiler-y, here, but y'all may want to take note of the last couple of tags I've added. If you don't wanna get spoiled, just keep on reading~.)

 

Unbeknownst to him, the sky begins to darken with gathering clouds behind him, a phenomenon accompanied by a consistent lowering of the temperature **.**   By the time he dismounts his still galloping horse only a handful of minutes later, there are small snowflakes peppering the air every so often.

 

Something has gone terribly wrong— or so the overwhelming wash of emotions coming from his mate bond tells him.  (As he’d initially been drawing close, he’d felt deep, potent triumph— which  _must_  have been him completing the crown.  And then, not long afterward, sharp grudging irritation— as though his hand had been forced and he’d been compelled to complete a task he had no desire to perform.  After that, the bond had quickly transitioned into the usual righteous determination that marked Nuada when he was in combat.)

 

Only... in the last minute,  _that_  has turned to complete shock and disbelief.  Has Nuada lost some type of fight?  Or maybe something had happened with his sister formally denouncing hi—

 

The sudden wave of absolute, all-encompassing fury and bloodlust and desperation is so strong that John actually drops to his hands and knees and blacks out for a moment when the dizzying emotions hit him.

 

That is an absolute  _cocktail_  for disaster, he knows, where it involves Nuada.  Gods— _what_  is  _happening_  in there?

 

He regains his footing and takes off at a pace he has never before achieved, bursting into the main room and racing past motionless, metal giants and BPRD agents alike.  When an unforgiving hot wedge of breath-stealing, mirrored agony pushes into his chest, it causes the world around him to pulse in a starburst of white when the muscle pumping away behind his ribs begins to beat out of rhythm.  The part-fae chokes out a completely involuntary gasp before righting himself and trying to block out the steady, burning throb of pain and trying to re-regulate his own heartbeat into something resembling normal parameters.

 

Time has gone a bit wonky, though, by the time he resumes his trek only milliseconds later; the figures around him seem utterly stationary compared to how fast he is moving, and yet his leaden feet seem as they are dragging through thick molasses.  At some point, he watches as the dagger drops out of Nuada’s hand and to the stone floor with a clatter that rings in the strange, sudden silence.

 

His vision tunnels on his other half who, himself, gazes at his sibling while exuding an inexpressibly deep ache— it’s something like betrayal ringed with the taste of bitter resignation and underlaid with a gradually waning sense of shock.

 

John half trips as he lunges forward to wrap his arms around his taller lover and brace him as strength seems to leave Nuada’s legs, leaving the part-fae to bear quite a bit of deadweight slowly to the ground.  All the while, distressingly, the inveterate stream of emotions he’s received from their bond so long as it has existed begins to steadily taper off.  A persistent voice barks just over his shoulder, which, if he cared to identify, would be found to be Hellboy’s.

 

As it is, he can see nothing beyond the pained, slightly perplexed expression on Nuada’s face **.**   Can hear nothing but the sound of his own heart pounding away with futile panic, even as it breaks and triggers a sudden and oft-absent depth of feeling that begins to overwhelm him.  There is nothing but the sensation of blood-sodden leather on one of his gloved hands which has migrated overtop of the breastplate concealing the fatal wound in order to apply pressure.

 

Within another ten seconds, Nuada is wetly struggling to breathe, eyelids fluttering as he haltingly mouths a soundless set of words to his other half.

 

“ _A-amin mela ssin, John.”_

 

“Nuada,  _please—,”_ he chokes out.

 

Feeling a last, almost pleadingly apologetic, tender wave of affection, John closes his sodden eyes to inhale shakily, once, and keeps them closed as any sense of the other part of the bond becomes impossible to find.  Unable to bear looking at his mate as he surely begins to undergo the same arborification process as his father, King Balor, had recently, John gently disentangles himself from the rapidly cooling body and softly lowers the unmoving head from his lap until it rests on the unyielding stone platform.

 

He straightens up before taking a tremulous, cleansing breath in and opening saltwater dampened eyes to stare stoically straight forward at the similar tableau that Abraham and Nuala make, not too far away.

As he rises to his feet, it feels almost as though he is floating— as if he’s detached from his body.  It is remarkably similar to how he felt during the latter part of his time with the Winter Court, except for the all-consuming tide of viscous, black hatred welling up from deep within him and threatening to paint over his every thought and desire.

 

He tunes into the outside world again in time to hear his former charge bellowing across the chamber to the crouched form of the Icthyo sapiens.

 

“…gotta start movin’, Abe— somethin’ weird’s happening!  Just… grab her, if you have to!”

 

Happening? What’s…?

 

Glancing around himself with a more observant eye, John notices that there is a thin blanket of frost growing steadily on the stationary troops of the Golden Army and atop most surfaces in the gigantic cavern.  When he looks down, he realizes that the spreading creep of ice is in fact spreading out from the central point of his body and moving in all directions with increasing speed and severity.

 

The being in the antiquated deep diving suit actually has difficulty unsticking his metal-soled boots from the rapidly thickening layer of ice that is overtaking the ground beneath them all.

 

“Shit!” the red demon snarls, retreating to avoid the encroaching layer of frigid, frozen crystal.

 

John is content to simply stand silently, unmoving and unmoved, until he sees Hellboy hold up the coveted golden crown and wave it in order to catch Elizabeth’s attention.

 

“Hurry, Liz!  We’ve gotta go— just get rid of this thing, first, wouldja’?”

 

Bright blue eyes snap onto the gleaming circlet as it is tossed underhand across the small expanse of four or five feet.  Before it travels even a third of that distance, John is putting off enough of a chill that he begins to emanate an aura of visible cold, as when one open a freezer on a hot day.

The pyrokinetic’s hands are already wreathed in flames hot enough to distort her grim visage when John finally, desperately sends a streak of fae ice magic at the innocuous-looking crown.  A split-second before the crown makes contact with the fire, it begins to rapidly ice over.

 

When the two extreme and polarized elements converge, there is a booming crack and a sharp hiss as super-heated steam shoots in all directions.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _Amin mela ssin_** \- I love you.  _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #howuwritesadfeels? #oop #learning #imtryingyall #iswear
> 
> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	14. Chapter 14

 

The scalding hot cloud hurts neither John or Elizabeth **,** but it  _does_  stun the latter— who’d been far closer to the explosion’s nucleus— long enough for her ex-teammate to swoop in and retrieve the mangled coronet in the confusion.

 

John darts back to his initial position and looks down at the partially intact golden crescent in his hands, noting that one side has completely melted away, leaving a break in the circle about the width of a human hand; there is sure to be a puddle of molten gold drippings somewhere nearby, he figures.

 

Sharp, miserable shame over his inability to salvage his mate’s plans trickles into his heart and mixes with aching grief and impotent fury over the fate of the very same fallen lover.

 

“Out,” he mutters, darkly, blood-stained gloved hands trembling at both the emotion and the chill as he brings the hardened globs of glossy metal to himself by manipulating the ice underneath them into rippling ridges and inclines that undulate in his direction.

 

When they’re near enough, he momentarily bends to bitterly gather the misshapen pieces of enchanted gold together and fits them into the same hand holding the other, intact three-quarters of the crown.

John notices that Elizabeth picked her way across the perilously slick and uneven surface toward her own mate at some point, and now both watch him warily with something close to pity, which he instantly puts out of mind.

 

His very person is so cold, now, that each steadily dripping tear turns immediately to ice when it hits the open air and his rimy cheeks.

 

“Myers/John…” Hellboy and Elizabeth say at the same time, contrition and caution heavy in their tone.

 

Turning to glare at them, he sees that Abraham has inconspicuously made his way to their side with Nuala lying quiescent in his arms.

 

His untethered emotions roil again at that moment, frustration at the gawping gallery of falsely concerned individuals triggering the shift.  John’s vision whites out as he grits his teeth at the peak of all-encompassing pain.

 

“I said,  _get_   ** _out_**!” he roars, a sudden blast of arctic air snapping to life, seemingly from nowhere, and causing the entire BPRD team to either stumble back toward the entrance, or hastily brace themselves.

 

“Please,” the fae whispers, turning back to his fallen lover whose body has been encased in an impenetrably thick layer of ice.  “Leave us…”

 

All but drained of the fiery rage from the past several minutes, he sinks back down to the ground, sitting on his heels and crying silent tears that ‘tink’ as they strike the floor.  The fading shuffle and clank of multiple sets of feet is audible, and soon it is just John and Nu— just  _John_  in the wintery cavern.  Ice creaks as it sets fully into the joints of stalled out Golden Army sentinels over dozens of acres, and the moving field of gears, nearby, has long since frozen over and halted.

 

John lets out a shuddering breath and bows his head, softening his spine to lean over his lover before closing his eyes and tiredly attempting to concentrate on somewhere…  _anywhere_  else.

 

When the two concentric rings of frost finally close around them, the dazed fae still is not quite sure where they will be going.  Why should it matter, anyway, when he’ll be going alone?

 

*

 

There is a sudden, unseasonably cool breeze that blows through the temperate climate of the small wooded campus and pushes her partially unbound hair across her vision, obscuring the old text she has been perusing during her midday meal break.

 

Curious.

 

She has barely enough time to tuck long, copper locks back behind a tapered ear before the screaming starts.  Several of her students nearly trip over themselves running past her as she instead heads resolutely toward the nexus of all the chaos.

 

Her eyes widen as she pushes her way past several lollygagging rubberneckers and meets a familiar pair of glowing, arctic blue eyes that are watery with tears.

 

“S-Sanas’er—”

 

*

 

"My prince,” Narza says, frantically, “ _Please_.  Until today, we have not heard a whisper of him since his escape.  This could very easily be a trap!”

 

Placing the saddle onto Scaith, who impatiently shuffles about before settling when it is properly tightened onto his body, Chulainn pays little mind to the exhausting grievances from this latest in a number of the castle’s inhabitants.

 

“Mm,” he hums, noncommittally, continuing to adjust straps and saddle bags this way and that.

 

Knowing better than to continue with his plea, the ice fae waits for a direct response from his imperator.  Unsurprisingly, based on what all other concerned parties have reported about the nature of their own interactions, he does not receive one as such.

 

Seemingly at last satisfied with his work, the scion of the Winter Court runs a moonflower-white hand over Scaith’s downy ears, and then strides off back toward the main palace.

 

“Be sure to speak to the head spellsmith— I want our glamours to be impeccable for this last visit.  Everything  _must_  go  _precisely_  according to plan if we are to regain the upper hand.  We are  _extremely_  lucky that my former ‘guest’ has only furthered our cause with he and that Bethmooran upstart’s meddling.”

 

Chulainn runs his thumb over the sigil hammered into the gauntlet he holds in one bare hand and briefly recalls the matching mark branded into a certain former BPRD agent's skin.

 

“As it is, we  _do_  have need of him, again, and it should be mere child’s play to track him without that bothersome anonymity charm over him, constantly.”

 

Narza frowns internally, conceding that the prince has truly set his mind.  Carefully repressing the long-suffering sigh and, instead, rallying to provide whatever support he can, as is his duty.

 

“Shall I retrieve the—”

 

“Yes,” the royal winter fae cuts in briskly.  “I never thought the Winter Court would need to use them again, but if Nuada succeeds in raising the Golden Army, we need to operate on equal footing.

 

“Bring me the Onyx Crown so we may depart immediately.  I have never relished in sitting out a fight, and I shan’t start to, now.”

 

 

_FIN_

 

* * *

 

 

Look who's back from part 1! Haha.   Anyhoot, thank you so SO much to those of you who've stuck around with me since the very first couple of chapters and through all my growing pains as a writer while I try and hone my skills with every bit I write.  This series has taught me a lot about storytelling at its most basic, and I'm hoping that I can implement some of those lessons in the third and final part of the series.

 

Getting out of a  _huge_  hole I wrote myself into was a big part of why it took f o r e v e r to get out these last little bits (and why they feel so clunky, in places), and it's relieving to just have one more part to go, finally.

 

And as you can see, certain characters will be returning in the next story, which will be titled 'When Kings May Yet Be Without Crowns'.  I hope to see you there, once I start posting it! <33

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
> Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoeswrite.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


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